


Gazing

by lamardeuse



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Hutch thought that Starsky had to have a hundred different ways of looking at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gazing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Lorraine Brevig's [gorgeous artwork](http://lorrainebrevig.com/Gazing.htm) of the same name. Your support and generosity mean so much to me, Lorraine. Thank you.
> 
> Author's Note: This is some kind of bizarre post-"Starsky vs. Hutch" thing that popped into my head. Thanks to Dana for her input on some canon points that I've tried to integrate in this revised version.

Sometimes Hutch thought that Starsky had to have a hundred different ways of looking at him.

He also knew how ridiculous it was to think that—hell, at most there couldn’t be more than a couple of dozen— but when he was under the shelter of that blue, blue gaze it didn’t seem so foolish.  Because that gaze could drag endless combinations and permutations of emotion out of him in a way no other’s ever had.  Not his father, not his wife, not any of the women who’d shared his bed.

Having Starsky’s gaze on him when they walked a beat was vital, because those eyes watched out for trouble, protected him.  His partner’s gaze was more valuable than a bulletproof vest at keeping Hutch alive and whole.  That kind of look was returned, one hundred percent.

There was another look they had in common, one that communicated their intent or their state of mind without the need for words.  Hutch had never been a big believer in telepathy and all that supernatural jazz, but when another human being could gaze into your eyes and see exactly what you wanted and needed in that moment, it no longer was a question of belief.  It simply was.

Then there was the gaze that Hutch could only label affectionate exasperation, one he’d gotten a few times from Starsk, but was actually an expression that probably appeared more frequently on his own face.  That one went hand-in-hand with the affectionate indulgence and the affectionate tolerance and the—hell, the just plain affection.  If someone else—another cop, usually—caught that one passing between them, the observer might elbow the person beside them and wiggle his eyebrows, as though showing you cared about the guy you’d take a fucking bullet for was worthy of a crude locker room joke. 

But when Starsky’s gaze was touching him that way he didn’t care where anyone else’s eyes were, because his own eyes were too busy giving back what he was getting. 

There were times when Starsky had his own ways of looking, though, ways that weren’t so easy for Hutch to give back.  There was the look that came straight from the devil living inside Starsky’s soul, the Loki that was always ready to play anytime, anywhere.  Hutch’d be sitting in the squad room, typing the millionth page of the most boring report in recorded history, and he’d look up and get flattened by the shit-eating twinkle in Starsky’s eyes. 

“What?” he’d say, irritably, because that was the reaction he was supposed to have to Starsky’s shit-eating twinkle.  The irritation was only partly feigned; whenever Starsk gave him that look, things tended to happen that embarrassed the hell out of him.  Like being swept off his feet and into Starsky’s arms while he stared up at the ceiling and into those wicked eyes.

But the mischievous light would only grow in direct proportion to Hutch's annoyance, feeding on the negative energy it received.  And that was when Hutch would start feeling a little like The Prisoner must’ve felt when that goofy bouncing ball started chasing him lazily down the beach.  It was pointless to run, so you might as well stand there and let it envelop you, swallow you whole.

Not such a bad way to go, really.

Then there was the way Starsk would look at him when Hutch was feeling lonely, or down, or when he was more than a little drunk.  That gaze wasn’t the clear, pure blue of mischief; it was muddy and clouded by the current of their shared history, by the eddies of regret and loss.  When Hutch looked into those eyes, he felt like the world could be blasted to a cinder and he’d still be whole, or as whole as he could be after thirty-six years spent playing the role of Ken Hutchinson.  Starsky’s eyes were a haven, the safest place he’d ever known, and yet they were a trap, too.  Because once he let himself fall, he knew he’d never have the strength—or the will—to come out again.

Those were some of the ways Starsky looked at him, though there had to be others, there had to be.  Desperately Hutch tried to think of them, tried to picture them in his mind, but they were starting to fade like colors at the onset of dusk, when everything washed to gray and the frigid evening breeze vanquished the heat of the sun.

Lately Starsky hadn’t been looking at him much.  Hutch could tell, because he felt cold all the damned time now.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

  
“What’re you lookin’ at?”

Hutch was yanked from his reverie by Starsky’s growl only to realize that his partner’s gaze was averted, trained on someone else entirely.  Glancing around at the nighttime denizens of Huggy's, he found the guy Starsky was eyeing, noticed with dismay that he was bigger than the two of them put together.

“Uh, Starsk,” he offered, laying a hand on the dark-haired forearm where it rested on the table.  While he watched, Starsky’s fingers curled into a fist, and he judiciously let go.  He didn’t know where the anger was coming from, but he knew when to let well enough alone.

A few tense seconds passed in which the two opponents stared one another down, and then the leviathan blinked, muttering an expletive and turning away.  Hutch felt Starsky tense beside him, felt the lean body shift.  Swiftly, he wrapped his fingers around his friend’s arm one more time, investing his grasp with determination.

“Don’t,” he murmured.  “Whatever it was, it’s not worth it.”

He watched as a muscle in Starsky’s jaw leapt frantically.  “You don’t know—”

“I don’t,” Hutch agreed.  “But it’s still not worth it.  I don’t want to see any more blood on you.”

Which was a slightly crazy thing to say, but it caused Starsk to look at him out of the corners of his eyes.  That made it worthwhile, if nothing else.

“Okay,” Starsky allowed, easing back against the vinyl bench.  Hutch felt Starsk’s eyes on the place where they were joined and hastily removed his hand.  The fist uncurled slowly like a dying flower.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”  Starsky was moving before he finished the sentence.  Shivering, Hutch struggled to catch up.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

  
The apartment smelled like patchouli incense, a reminder of last night’s date.  Brenda had cooked him an elaborate meal of poached trout and curried vegetables, and after she’d left the cacophony of smells had made sleep impossible. 

_The things I do to get laid, _he’d thought as he watched the curl of smoke wending its way through his kitchen, then wondered when the hell he’d become a parody of himself.

“Whew!  Smells like the Maharishi Temple over on West Ocean,” Starsky muttered, waving a hand in front of his face.

“I’ll open a window,” Hutch said, motivated by the sudden, heartstopping fear that Starsk would leave.  He careened through the apartment until there was a steady crosswind blowing through the place.  Soon it would be autumn, or what passed for autumn here in Paradise.  He felt a strange, abrupt longing for crisp Minnesota fall nights.  Because that kind of cold at least served its own purpose, had its own purity.  Anything was better than this gradual, pointless freezing.

When he finally turned to Starsky, he found the man sprawled on his couch, a semi-recumbent invitation to sin. 

_Fuck_, he thought, annoyed by the sudden failure of his legs to support the rest of his body.  He swayed for a moment, and Starsky, sensing his distress, shifted to one side to make a place for his teetering frame.

“Got any beer?” Starsky asked after Hutch had collapsed beside him.

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of expectant silence. Hutch made to rise, but was stopped by a firm hand.  “Don’t get up.”

“But you wanted—”  Hutch’s gaze rose to Starsky’s face at that point, and was pinned by a look he’d never seen before.  The unfamiliarity of it was such a shock that he looked away, afraid he would no longer recognize his reflection in those eyes.

“Whut’d I want?” Starsky husked.  Hutch didn’t respond, didn’t look up.  After about a hundred years, Starsky blew out a breath and leaned back against the couch.  His hand dropped from Hutch’s arm.  The loss felt like an amputation.

“What did that guy say to you?” Hutch asked, voice no more than a whisper.

He glanced up in time to see Starsky shake his head.  “Doesn’t matter.”

“But it—”

“It _doesn’t_,” Starsky insisted.  “It wasn’t him.  He wasn’t—that wasn’t what really pissed me off.”

“What was it, then?”

Starsky hesitated for a few seconds, then murmured,  “Me and thee, partner.” 

Hutch felt the surface of his skin contract.  Leaning forward, he scrubbed at his face with his hands.  That all of it, all of the years and the blood and the beauty would come to this, had to be the supreme cosmic joke.  Only it wasn’t so goddamned funny when you were the one who’d fucked it all up.

“I wish I’d never touched her,” Hutch muttered.  “I wish I’d never—”

And then, to his complete and utter shock, Starsky started laughing.  Hutch looked at him, finally, stared in complete astonishment as his partner convulsed and shook and wheezed until tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

“Jesus,” he panted, “is _that _what you think this is about?”  Before Hutch could respond, he collapsed under another fit of giggles. 

“What else would it be about?” Hutch demanded, confused and shaken and nauseous at the sight of everything going straight to hell.  “You can’t even stand to _look _at me any more—”

“You never look at _me_!” Starsky shot back, sobering quickly. 

Hutch frowned.  “That’s not—”  But he bit back the words, because suddenly he realized it was true. 

Starsky was wiping at his eyes, taking in long, shuddering breaths.  “I been looking,” he said, voice low.  “You just haven’t been seein’.”

Hutch sucked in a breath, willing to concede that small point.  Now all he had to do was summon up the courage to see his future reflected in Starsky’s eyes. 

He wasn’t sure if he could do it.

“C’mon,” Starsky said gently, as if sensing his trepidation.  “Look at me, Hutch.”

Hutch took another deep breath, raised his head and looked.

Those blue, blue eyes were on him, gazing their fill, giving him every damned look he’d ever received from them and a few he’d never seen before all rolled up together.  It was beautiful, and overwhelming, and terrifying.  It was his whole life distilled into one pure, crystalline moment, and Hutch knew the second Starsky recognized the same look in his eyes.

“We’re so fucking stupid,” Starsky breathed, bracketing Hutch’s face with his hands and pulling him forward to meet his mouth.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

  
Starsky, it would seem, was no longer interested in waiting for Hutch to make any more important decisions, because within minutes Starsk had him stripped, panting and backed up against his big bed.  He planted one hand in the middle of Hutch’s chest and shoved, and Hutch went, felled like an oak tree.  Starsky followed him down and straddled him, still fully clothed.

He felt the weight of Starsky’s gaze everywhere now, lighting on his arms, his neck, his left hipbone, his knees, his cock.  The thoroughness of it left him gasping, shivering, broken.  How the hell could he have missed this?

Starsky’s fingers brushed lightly down Hutch’s cheek and Hutch shuddered.

“Cold?”

Hutch shook his head.  “Not anymore.”  He met Starsk’s gaze; his hand rose and mirrored the caress he was receiving.  Starsk arched into the touch like a cat, then began ripping at the buttons of his own shirt.

Hutch awakened from his stupor then.  With a growl, he pushed up suddenly, and the smaller man lost his balance.

“Hey!”

Moving swiftly, Hutch flipped him onto his back, covered Starsky like a blanket, then grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the mattress.  He lowered his face until all he could see were those eyes.

“Go slow,” Hutch whispered.  Starsky heaved against him, mouth open, gulping in air.

“Don’t wanna,” he protested.  “Feels like I waited forever for this.”

Hutch drew back a little at that.  “How long?”

Starsky paused to consider it, his struggles momentarily forgotten.  “Guess if I wanted to be honest, I’ve always thought about it.  But it hasn’t been like this for long.  Since right after…”  He trailed off; no matter, because Hutch knew what he was talking about.

“What about you?” Starsky demanded.  His eyes held a shadow of doubt, of uncertainty, and Hutch wanted nothing more than to erase it.  He released Starsky’s wrists and sat up, then shifted position so that they were lying side by side.

“You know me,” Hutch murmured.  “I’m good at sticking my head in the sand.”

Their gazes locked and held, searching for a home in the depths of the other.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Hutch choked, squeezing his eyes shut.  “Oh, Christ, Starsk—”

“Shh,” Starsky soothed, gathering Hutch up in his arms.  “Enough of that, babe.  Way I see it, we just—lost sight of each other.  But it’s over, and I don’t want to see any more blood—on either of us.” 

Deliberately, Starsky eased onto his back, pulling Hutch over on top of him.  “We’ll try it your way,” he husked, tugging one of Hutch’s big hands over to the middle button of his shirt.  “Slow and easy.”

As mesmerized by this patient, generous man as he had been by the passionate dervish, Hutch moved to obey, suddenly agile fingers freeing each button until Starsky was stripped to the waist.  Once that task was accomplished he glided his palm over the rough swirls of hair for some time, occasionally ghosting his fingertips over the smooth skin of Starsky's sides for contrast.

Starsky gritted his teeth, fighting the bit of his own self-imposed equanimity, but he couldn’t stifle a moan when Hutch grew fascinated with dark, prominent nipples.  “Ahh, Jesus,” he rasped finally, “you ever gonna kiss me?”

Hutch smiled and took Starsky’s face in his hands.  Starsky gazed up at him through heavy-lidded eyes glazed with lust and exasperation and need, and Hutch decided he liked this new look a great deal.  He rubbed the rough pad of his thumb against Starsky’s lower lip until his jaw went slack, and then took advantage of the weakness with his tongue.  Hands fisted in Hutch’s hair as Starsky returned the kiss with all the stored potential energy of the past few minutes, weeks, months.

After that slow and easy went flying out the window, not that Hutch gave a damn.  The pace increased, fueled by eager hands and mouths, until they were grinding against one another helplessly.  Somewhere, Hutch found the strength to push himself up, breaking the contact.  Robbed of the sweet pressure of Hutch’s body, Starsky emitted a sound somewhere between a roar and a whimper.

“What the—” Starsky panted, eyes flying open, mouth a hard line of frustration and rage.  Hutch silenced him with a savage kiss, then pulled back.  One hand plunged into Starsky’s hair while the other wrapped around his cock.  Hutch watched Starsk’s eyes widen at the blatant act of possession.

“Like this,” Hutch panted, gazing down into Starsky’s sweat-sheened face.  “I need you to see me.”  He stroked experimentally; Starsky’s throat convulsed, but his eyes remained open.  “I need to see you.”

Starsky nodded jerkily, and then Hutch felt his own erection enclosed in a tight, uncompromising grasp.  He sucked in a breath as Starsky started a rhythm that brought him swiftly to the edge.

But it was the look in Starsky’s eyes that sent him over.

   
   
   
   
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

   
   
   
   
 

  
“What’re you lookin’ at?”

Starsky shifted against the vinyl bench, leaning closer.  This late at night Huggy’s was almost deserted, but even if it had been packed to the rafters Hutch suspected his lover would’ve done the same thing.  Because the mischief was back in his eyes, and both of them knew exactly what that did to Hutch.

Irritated him?  Sometimes.  

Embarrassed him?  Not so much any more.

Made him want to push Starsk up against a wall and devour that insolent grin?  Hell, yeah.

“I’m lookin’ at you,” Hutch answered, closing a couple of more inches between them, giving back a little of his own mischief.  “You mind?”

Starsky’s blue, blue eyes touched him everywhere, and Hutch shivered with the promise of dawn and a thousand brilliant colors blazing in the sun.

“I don’t mind,” Starsk murmured.  “I don’t mind one bit.”

**Author's Note:**

> First published January 2005.


End file.
